The chamber was vast and silent, its air thick with the weight of centuries.
Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, echoing drops. The faint light of Johan's lighter flickered over carvings of war and gods long forgotten— and at the far end of the tomb, seated upon a crumbling throne, was the guardian.
The figure was neither fully man nor spirit.
He was sheathed in golden armor, burnished yet darkened by age. His shoulder plates shimmered with black metal, trimmed in faint veins of gold that pulsed with a heartbeat of their own. His helmet, shaped like that of a Spartan warrior, covered the face entirely, save for the thin slit from which a red light bled through— constant, alive, and burning like coals in the night.
Intricate sigils crawled across his chestplate, glowing faintly like embers in cooled iron. A massive red ribbon, frayed and torn by battle, hung from the crest of his helm, swaying with the faint current of air that shouldn't have existed this deep underground.
Johan froze. His breath caught in his throat.
"Mesich…" he whispered.
The knight's head tilted, the red glow flickering. Then, the impossible—
It spoke.
"Mesich," the guardian's voice echoed, metallic and deep, vibrating through the stones. "The Last Sentinel. And you, mortal… the one who ran."
The throne trembled as he rose, every step shaking the floor with a low thoom… thoom… thoom. Dust rained from the ceiling. Johan's knees nearly gave way.
Mesich drew himself upright, towering and regal. His ribboned helm gleamed gold as he removed his weapons one by one— first the black-bladed daggers, their edges lined with golden runes that pulsed faintly; then the longsword, matching the same black hue, its edge sharp enough to hum softly in the air. From his hip, he unlatched a black sheath inlaid with more patterns of gold; and lastly, he pulled from his back a long spear, its tip fractured yet still radiating murderous intent.
He let them fall one after another— clang… clang… clang… —their echoes ringing down the corridors like funeral bells. Finally, from his belt, he lifted a bony horn, etched with gold lines spiraling toward its mouthpiece. He dropped it beside the weapons.
Then he stepped forward, spreading his gauntleted hands.
"Duel me," Mesich rumbled. "As is tradition… flesh to flesh. Soul to soul."
Johan's mind reeled.
He remembers me. He remembers Julian.
He took a step back. "No… last time— last time I barely escaped you," he whispered. "How are you even still—"
The knight tilted his head slightly, the red light flaring brighter. "Last time, you ran. This time, you return. The tomb remembers its trespassers."
Johan clenched his fists. His body trembled— not from fear alone, but from the weakness.
Why do I feel slower? Weaker? he thought. This body— it's not mine. The strength I had as Julian… it's gone.
He laughed bitterly under his breath. "Of course. As every damn novel says, the transmigrator awakens power, knowledge, or blessing. And what do I get? Poverty, decay… and this thing."
His thoughts raced back to the relic— the card he had once touched before death. He remembered its violet glow, its spiraling patterns of light, and the whisper that came with it: "Reality… bends to those who burn."
Johan tore open his shirt, his chest slick with sweat and grime. There, etched directly into his skin, was a mark— a golden sun, blazing faintly, its black rays spreading like ink across his ribs. It pulsed. Slowly. Deeply.
"What the hell…?"
Before he could think, Mesich was already upon him.
THOOM!
A single punch hit his ribs like a sledgehammer. The sound of cracking bone tore through the silence. Johan flew backward, crashing into the stone wall. His breath exploded from his lungs in a gasp of agony.
He slumped, coughing blood. "Gah—! Damn you…"
The knight advanced, each step like the toll of a bell.
Johan gritted his teeth. "Alright… you want a duel? Let's burn for it."
He thought of the sun— the heat, the endless fire, the unyielding will that no shadow could drown.
He stood again, shaky but burning with fury. "If I'm to die, then I'll take your pride with me."
Mesich lunged again, his fists swinging in brutal arcs. WHUMP! CRASH! Johan barely dodged— the air itself hissed as the blows passed. Stone cracked where they landed.
He rolled aside, panting. Too fast. Too strong. This isn't human.
Mesich's sword hand clenched, but he didn't reach for his weapon. "You still run. But not far enough."
The knight struck again. THUD! Johan's vision blurred as he slammed into the floor, pain rippling through his body. He groaned, dragging himself upright, spitting crimson.
His mind screamed. Think, damn it. You can't fight him as you are— then fight him as you're not.
When the knight approached to deliver another kick, Johan moved on instinct.
He caught the armored leg— barely— his hands trembling under the pressure.
"Not this time," he hissed.
He pictured the sun again— but not its warmth. Its wrath. The burning core that devoured everything it touched.
Disintegrate.
A low hum filled the air. The sigil on his chest flared, casting golden light through his soaked shirt. His skin burned, veins glowing faintly as something ancient stirred.
Mesich froze mid-motion. His armor— the portion Johan gripped— began to crackle.
Tiny flecks of black metal rose like dust motes.
Then—
SHHHHHHRRRRRR!
The leg armor disintegrated, turning to fine golden powder that drifted away in glowing embers.
Mesich staggered, his red eyes flaring wide. Johan stared at his own hands, shaking. The air hissed with the scent of scorched iron.
"What… what did I just—"
The knight stepped back, molten energy dripping from his ruined leg. The red glow in his visor pulsed faster, like a heart.
Johan smirked weakly, coughing blood. "Guess the sun's still burning somewhere in me."
---